


But The Tigers Come At Night

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Mentions of War, Post Reichenbach, gen - Freeform, missing a friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 21:13:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Sherlock gone, the nightmares come back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But The Tigers Come At Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [weekendgothgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weekendgothgirl/gifts).



> Hi, okay, yeah. I told myself I'd never write Sherlock fic, no matter how much I love to read it, but apparently I couldn't stop myself. I'm gonna blame **weekendgothgirl** for this, just because.
> 
> Unbeta'd, and my first attempt at writing anything to do with Sherlock, so I apologise for any mistakes.

There's a loud explosion in John's ear and he startles awake. His heart is racing a million to one and he can feel his nightshirt sticking to his skin. It takes a few blinks for his eyes to adjust to the dark, and even when he knows he's in the comfort of his own room and not the sands of a foreign land, John's heart still keeps trying to beat it's way out of his chest.

He sits up, the uncomfortable feeling of cold sweat trickling down his back enough to make him sick. In fact, he probably _will_ be sick at some point - it's nothing new, not these days. 

John focuses on a framed photograph on the wall face his bed. It's just a silly photo, him and Harry at the zoo when they were kid. They're both scowling (like every other picture of them together), and they've got their faces painted up like tigers. Harry's face paint is streaked from her tears, and John's hair is a complete mess from Harry tugging it. It's not a particularly happy photo, but it always seems to calm John down. He'd found it when he was clearing up the flat, not long after he'd finally returned, and something about it just made him feel better. Sure, he and Harry might not be the closest of siblings, but the picture makes him feel normal - it was a normal time, a family outing. A day at the zoo with ice cream, large cats and squabbling over who got to sit on dad's shoulders to see the baby elephant. _Normal_. Something John can't seem to find these days.

It only takes a few minutes before his heart's slowed down to an almost regular pace, and he lets himself fall back against his soaked pillow. He really should call his sister at some point, return one of her calls.

John stares at the ceiling, eyes tracing over the familiar cracks in the paint. He tries to focus on the irregular pattern and not the sounds still ringing in his ears. They'll be there for hours, and he knows he won't sleep again tonight, regardless of the hour. 

The flat is silent, which is a little disheartening. Well, no, it's extremely disheartening, but John's trying not to dwell on it. He spends each night trying not to dwell on it. It's almost deafening though, no matter how much he tries to ignore it. He's found it's extrememly difficult to ignore silence.

Eventually John drags himself out of bed. There's no point lying in bed, even if he doesn't have anything to do with himself until he starts his rounds at lunchtime. He makes his way down to the kitchen, moving in a routine-like way as he flips the switch on the kettle and grabs the milk from the fridge, before remembering he doesn't even take milk and puts it back. He rarely has milk in anything, so he doesn't know why he keeps buying it.

Only, he does. He scolds himself every time, but it doesn't stop him. He supposes he's not ready to give up on all his old habits.

Old habits. John hates thinking of them as _old_ , no matter how long it's been since...well. John looks up at the door to the back of the kitchen and it's too silent. There's a few boxes piled in front of it, because again, it doesn't matter how long it's been, he's not ready to go in there.

John drags his eyes away as the kettle whistles, and soon enough he's sitting in his old reliable armchair with a cup of tea and his laptop in his lap. He sips slowly, his hand shaking, and scrolls through his emails. There's a few from Mike, and one from Greg, but he doesn't open them. Sure, he might be back at work now, taking on a few locum shifts, but he doesn't think he's ready for socialising, not yet.

John looks up from the screen and just lets his eyes trail over the room. It's practically the same as it was the day he moved in, only it's completely different. All of Sherlock's things are still there, still where he'd left them before...well. The only things John had got rid of were human body parts and that stupid jar of dead flies that he found under the couch. Everything else though, is different. It's because everything is untouched, John knows that. There's no crazy haired man pacing around, throwing books and trantrums, yelling and jumping. Everything is silent.

He sighs and sits his cup down, closing his eyes. He opens them almost instantly, the remains of his dreams still vivid behind his eyelids. 

The dreams (or nightmares, really) aren't anything new. He's had them before, had them all along, if he's honest, even before he came back to London. They'd taunted him, driven him to the brink of madness on some occasions.

Until Sherlock came along, of course. They hadn't gone, the dreams - no, they'd stuck around, but they just...he could ignore them, in a way. There was something else to focus on when he woke up panting and sweating. There was always noise, always something drowning out the silence - muttering, glass beakers clanking, a violin that wasn't always in tune. There was always _something_ for John to focus on, something that had become normal. In fact, John's more than convinced that sometimes Sherlock would do it on purpose, make as much noise as he possibly could, like he knew John needed it.

But it's gone now, the noise. It's silent, all the time, and it's the silence that feeds the monsters in John's head. He can't remember that last full night's sleep he had. Long before...well. Before _then_.

John sighs again and rubs his hands over his face. He looks up at the television set, debating on whether or not to dement himself with teleshopping. He needs something normal again, something to escape to when the bombs and bullets pierce his thoughts.

It's a few minutes later when John opens a new email and starts to type.

> _Harry,_
> 
> _So, I was thinking, if you're free this weekend, how about a trip to the zoo? I'll even let you pull my hair._
> 
> _John x_


End file.
